Protest Movement
Before the original Houlihan’s — the thirty-year-old Houlihan’s Old Place — closed the doors on its Country Club Plaza location last November, Gail Lozoff, the restaurant chain’s chief concept officer, arranged for “protesters” in headbands and peace symbols to picket in front of the building with signs.
It was a publicity stunt; the faux hippies were not actually protesting anything (the signs were advertisements like “The Prices, They Are a-Changin'”), except maybe good taste. Still, it was a slow news day, and sure enough, TV cameras showed up to capture the end of an era: Houlihan’s, which had helped establish the Plaza as a sexy, swinging dining location in the 1970s, was now the dowdiest doll in the bunch.
The times, they were a-changing, all right. Like many Vietnam War-era hippie chicks who morphed into politically conservative middle-aged matrons, Houlihan’s was packing up and moving to the suburbs for good.
I didn’t shed any tears over the move, despite my own bittersweet memories of Houlihan’s in those early, free-spirited years. Hard to believe now, but in its day, Houlihan’s was as seductive and lively as Re:Verse and the Kona Grill are today. The restaurant’s founders, Joe Gilbert and Paul Robinson, brazenly melded sex and dining into a “concept” back when the Sexual Revolution was in full swing. Houlihan’s was Kansas City’s answer to youth-focused restaurant bars across the country, particularly Maxwell’s Plum in New York City (the first to decorate with kitschy memorabilia and antiques) and the fast-growing T.G.I. Friday’s chain. If Houlihan’s didn’t imitate those restaurants, it was certainly inspired by them.
The tone of the early Houlihan’s was irreverent, from the cleverly written menus to the sassy waitresses, actually called the “Houlihan Girls” in those politically incorrect days. But along the way, what had once been fun and irreverent became stodgy and irrelevant. Before the 48-restaurant chain filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy reorganization last year, even the legendary Plaza location had lost all traces of its once hip, eccentric style. It had become so frumpy and boring that even its most devoted following — the baby boomers who had come of age drinking Cheap Sunglasses cocktails at the Houlihan’s bar — had switched loyalties to the Cheesecake Factory or Grand Street Café.
When Houlihan’s announced it was moving the Plaza restaurant staff and a few vintage mementos (including the old Tom Houlihan’s haberdashery sign) to the former Fairway Grill location — in the snooty Fairway Shops, on the border between two high-dollar Johnson County neighborhoods — I was skeptical. My last few ventures into the suburban satellites had been disappointing experiences, to say the least.
But I have to give Lozoff and the current team of Houlihan’s executives a pat on the back, because they’re at least making a bold effort to polish up a long-tarnished image. This newest Houlihan’s has a distinctive and attractive décor, the trimmed-down menu is mostly right on the mark, and the youthful staff has at least a healthy glimmer on the art of customer service.
If the expensively appointed Fairway Grill evoked a 1940s roadhouse (right down to the shiny grand piano in the corner), the new Houlihan’s sports a vaguely European bistro look. The piano is gone (and so is the revolving chicken rotisserie and its heavenly perfume, alas), the dark woodwork has been painted in shades of yellow and cream, and three new Tiffany-style lamps, almost Goliath in dimension, float over the granite-topped bar. The walls boast mirrors and French poster prints, the tables are uncloaked and the svelte servers are clad in black from head to toe.
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But looks are only skin-deep, and there are some blemishes beneath the glossy surface. The front-door hostesses are so dizzy that you wonder why they don’t spin right out that very pair of doors, and on two of my four visits, the bathrooms were a mess. The managers are obviously keeping an eye on the crew in the open kitchen, but attention to the house should extend all the way to the very back, particularly in this stylish venue.
On one visit, I took my friends John and Mike, not unfamiliar with the Houlihan’s menu, who both immediately noticed that the word Houli is overdone in a big way.
It’s a new tradition, I guess, to give a plate of fried chicken fingers or buffalo wings the Houli nickname, not to mention two of the hamburgers and the Reuben sandwich. It’s what they call “branding” these days; nobody remembers the equally daffy Ethnic Burger or the Burger-Burger of the original 1970s menu. A later culinary incarnation, the grilled Brentwood chicken sandwich, remains on the menu and is now served on a toasted brioche bun instead of focaccia. It’s still juicy and delicious, thanks to a generous basting of red wine and garlic butter.
On the frigid Sunday that I dined with John and Mike, they both ordered one of the oldest Houlihan’s offerings — French onion soup, topped with a circle of crusty bread and a molten cap of cheese. They both scowled after the first spoonful. “It’s too salty,” Mike said. “This must be the dregs of the pot, because it tastes old and tarry. I’ll bet if you come in tomorrow, it will be fresh. And very good.” (I did, and it did.)
The chicken tortilla soup that I ordered wasn’t much better. The chicken had been cooked down to stringy lumps, the red and green peppers were almost unrecognizable, and the tortilla strips had fused together like overcooked pasta. An appetizer of Asian lettuce wraps, copied from the P.F. Chang’s delicacy, was sloppily presented and not all that tasty, either; the sautéed chicken was glazed in a sweet sesame sauce and strewn with scallions, but trying to eat them in unyielding shards of frosty iceberg lettuce was almost a comedy of errors.
The entrée choices, at least, were easy to eat. John’s oddball pasta choice, Navajo Grilled Chicken Penne, was a pileup of ethnic influences (none resonating with any particular Native American sensibility), though the smoked chipolte and roasted-red-pepper cream sauce did give it a mildly Southwestern kick. The grilled chicken breast that Mike ordered was plump and fragrant with rosemary, perched on a creamy mound of mashed potatoes. And my slab of grilled pink salmon, lightly rubbed with chopped coriander, was perfectly cooked and coyly posed on the edge of the mashed potatoes, much like the nubile Jane Russell lolling on that haystack in The Outlaw.
On another night, the restaurant was clicking on all cylinders. A fancy quesadilla, thicker than an Octavio Paz novel, was filled to bursting with spicy blackened chicken, cheddar cheese and caramelized onions. The soups were sensual affairs, including the signature baked-potato soup, a satin-smooth concoction of cream, potatoes and butter heaped with bacon, cheese and scallions. My friend Martha shocked me by polishing off a hefty 10-ounce hunk of aged prime top sirloin, gorgeously juicy and sizzling hot, along with a salt-coated baked spud that was nearly as big as she was.
I can only rave about the Down Home Pot Roast, rich with long-simmered chunks of fork-tender beef and roasted vegetables in a fragrant mushroom sauce. It wasn’t just satisfying to the stomach and soul; it was a soothing antidote to a bone-chilling night.
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Both dinners were so decadently rich that a big, fattening dessert would have been a scandalous finale. That’s why the corporate decision to shrink some of Houlihan’s most popular desserts, like the cappuccino cake and the upside-down cheesecake, is a brilliant idea. Who could feel guilty about eating a miniature dessert?
The fudgy cappuccino cake tastes the way it always did but now arrives as an iced circle slightly smaller than a hockey puck (“No, dear, a large cosmetic compact,” Martha corrected me), topped with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. Four shared bites and it’s gone. Ditto the fluffy little puff of cheesecake or a tiny, dome-shaped confection that attempts to capture the chewy wonder of that divine Snickers-bar pie of another era. Unfortunately, the Mini Snickers Dome was served on a cookie crust that was so hard to cut that a sledgehammer would have been the only way to eat it successfully.
I told Martha that I might dig out my old fringed vest and peace-symbol pinkie ring just to protest that dessert!
